


Staking A Claim With Purple

by therogueheart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boys in Sweaters, Claiming, Getting Together, M/M, Retail Therapy, Shopping, Slight frenemies, Staking Claims, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Superhero Costumes, Sweaters, Tony Stark's Sass, We ignore CW, nobody knows what's going on, not abo, oblivious idiots in love, stucky friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therogueheart/pseuds/therogueheart
Summary: How was Bucky to know unwittingly buying a sweater in the exact shade of purple that Clint prances around in was modern-day code for them fucking?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 200





	Staking A Claim With Purple

Apparently, being a functioning member of society once again meant shopping for your own clothes. Outside. Bucky had argued that brain damage or not he knew perfectly well online shopping was a thing, but his therapist had given him a bland smile and some bullshit about 'normalisation, socialization and self-expression'. Steve had given him puppy eyes that still worked even now, and Stark had simply flicked a sleek, black debit card at him. Natasha had not been around, so she had been utterly and entirely unhelpful in either case. 

So. Clothes shopping it was. Steve came with him, of course, because that was the only way Bucky had agreed to this. He and Steve would spent exactly two hours shopping. It wasn't that he didn't like the outdoors, or people, or that he was scared. In fact, his reluctance was based entirely on the pandering, somewhat condescending way that the affair was treated. It automatically made him bare his teeth and dig in his heels. He was a grown fucking adult, thanks. If he could save the world from an alien invasion he could nip to his local Burberry for a damned sweater. 

And in his local Burberry he did, indeed, actually find a sweater. He wasn't looking for sweaters, he'd been trying to find socks, but the glimpse of purple had attracted him like a moth to a porch light. He'd never really considered wearing purple; most of his closet was greyscale, discounting the atrocious Christmas sweater Thor had lovingly presented him with. And yet...

It was a darker sort of purple. Deep. The sweater was all one shade and soft when he touched it, frowning. He almost didn't want to like it, but he took it from the rack all the same, staring at it for a little while longer before roaming the jeans isle. Steve found him some fifteen minutes later, his own arms laden with a leather jacket and a soft, pale blue shirt. " _Huh_ " Steve breathed, when Bucky showed off his choices. The remark had come in relation to the sweater, which Bucky clutched defensively. 

"It's soft" he argued, and Steve raised a brow. 

"It's purple. A very _particular_ purple" he pointed out, his face doing a weird thing like he was trying not to smile. 

"What, like it's trademarked?" Bucky half-snapped, and stomped off to the cash out desk. Steve actually had to do a brief jog to catch up to him, raising a palm in surrender. Though now that Bucky looked at it, it _did_ seem rather familiar. It took him a while to think up the answer, so long in fact that they had checked out their individual hauls and were approaching the doors when Bucky looked across at Steve. "There's nothing wrong with chocolate. _Especially_ not Cadbury's" he informed him, matter-of-factly, and continued out onto the sidewalk. A little amused and a lot confused, Steve followed after him. 

Back home, the clothing haul went into the laundry and for all intents and purposes, once it had been shoved to the back of his ridiculous walk-in, Bucky more or less forgot about the sweater. He was the _Winter Soldier_. The thing that lurked in the darkness. Such a creature didn't wear sweaters. 

Well. Not until the Autumn became brisk and the tree-leaves begun to fall, anyway. 

Then, the creature of darkness wears sweaters, gloves and winter socks. 

Breakfast is one of Bucky's more favoured parts of the day. Steve is either up earlier than he is and busy at the gym or elsewhere, or at least two out of seven days has been bribed into laying in with sleepy morning sex. Bruce can sometimes be found slumped over the kitchen island with a mug of tea, but the man is quiet and disturbs him none. Stark and Thor are the hurricanes of the team, loud and obnoxious no matter the hour. Though sometimes, if he's been up long enough, Stark is pliant and silent enough that Bucky can herd him back into Steve's arms without fuss. 

Barton and Natasha, still SHIELD's favourite attack dogs, are often away for long periods of time, so its easier to tolerate the rare occasions that they disturb his routine. Coffee comes first, sipped quietly at the kitchen island. Then the customary protein shake, and a breakfast of his choice. Usually bacon, egg, tomato and toast. Sometimes a large fruit bowl. Here and there, if he is short on time, a hefty helping of cereal. Today feels more like a bacon-egg-tomato-toast day, and its blessedly quiet as he pads through the common room. Its not long, however, until the sound of movement hits his ears, and rounding the corner presents the fact that Bucky apparently woke up late enough to hit Steve coming back from a morning run. 

"Morning, Bucks" Steve greeted, chest heaving and grin broad as he took a carton of eggs from the fridge. Bucky passed closer than one might in general, shamelessly rubbing up against Steve's side as he reached for the bacon. Once Stark had gotten over posturing every time he and Steve touched, they'd quickly fallen back into their tactile habits of the past. The act drew a pleased hum from his friend, who brushed a hand along the side of his hip before retreating to allow Bucky room to get the bread and the can of chopped tomatoes from the cupboard. 

"Coffee?" Steve offered, gesturing to the pot, and Bucky nodded in response, using metal fingers to merely pry open the tin before working on heating pans and toasters. If Steve had been reaching for eggs he would be aiming to make an omelette. "So" Steve begun after a short while of moving in comfortable silence, and Bucky arched a brow at him from where he'd been leaning against the kitchen counter, watching his bacon sizzle. That tone meant that Steve was about to bring up something Bucky would likely find displeasing. Like the time Stark had signed them all up to pose for an Avengers themed calendar. 

"Clint gets back tomorrow" Steve begun, steadfast avoiding Bucky's gaze as he pottered about, stirring sugar into their respective mugs. Steve had never really been a coffee drinker, but he'd sip at a sweetened cup in the name of being social. Bucky allowed himself to relax a little on the premise that it was not anything to do with more cheesy photography or world-ending. "And he'll be here. In the Tower. For a while" Steve continued, in a way that was wholly unsubtle. The problem was, Bucky didn't know what he was trying to hint at. 

"Okay? We throwing him a 'welcome back' party or something?" He asked after he'd prodded his bacon, folding his arms to look at Steve. His best friend only shrugged, lips tugging down at the corners before he gave a measured and careful shrug. Something was clearly on his mind, but he wasn't just gonna leap out and say it. And frankly, Bucky wasn't in the mood to go digging this morning. He wanted a lazy breakfast and a hot shower before he went to workout. Steve could mull over whatever issue he had with Barton's return on his own. 

"Well, no. We could, though, if that would make you feel better? I just wanted to say it doesn't have to be weird, y'know? You can relax. Hang out. Y'know" Steve finished, glancing across at Bucky and evidently pleased by the fact he'd made his point. Whatever the apparent point was. By Bucky's calculations, Steve was suggesting team bonding. Friendship. He heaved out a sigh and took his bacon from the pan, scowling at his eggs. If they'd cooked quicker, he might not have had to listen to this. He'd gone shopping. He had weekly brunch specifically with Stark to get past the whole 'I killed your parents' thing. Wasn't that enough? 

"I know what you're doing. And you can stop it. I'm perfectly capable of functioning normally" Bucky hissed at him, taking his eggs off. Fuck it, he could eat them a little runny for the sake of running away from this train wreck. "Keep your nose out of it, punk" he threatened as he stole away with his food, back turned to Steve's lopsided smile. The goddamned idiot couldn't just let Bucky alone, could he? Not to mention that forced friendship was a helluva step from a basic shopping trip. "Has to be Stark. Or Fury" he muttered as he kicked his bedroom door shut. Forced bonding wasn't overly Steve's style; he was more the type to try and subtly bring a team together through shit like sparring and movie nights. 

Bucky was in the gym when Stark approached him, twitching like he was overdue a meth hit and looking wholly uncomfortable. Bucky kept punching, because Stark in the gym wasn't an uncommon thing, and didn't necessarily mean that the man's objective was him. Until, of course, he couldn't ignore the fact that Stark had been standing there for five minutes, staring. "What?" he snapped lightly, twisting to steady the bag and stare down the lead Avenger. Stark's gaze tipped over the rim of his dark red shades, but he didn't seem offended by Bucky's temper. 

"Steve told me. About the Barton thing. Gotta say - He's basically you, anyway. S'a good match. Shared experiences and all.. I approve" he sniffed, before taking his leave, forcing Bucky to blink after him in stunned confusion. They were making this whole thing sound like some sort of arranged marriage, not a forced friendship between two team members who were already established as at least non-threatening. Bucky liked Clint, and was fairly sure Clint got along with him right back. 

"Morons" he muttered with a shake of his head, rolling his shoulders before he went back at the bag. And if he imagined two sets of pearly teeth on the odd hit, well. His therapist out to be proud he wasn't gunning for the real ones. He worked until his arms begun to ache and the sweat dropped between his shoulderblades, and retreated to the shower. In the warmth of the water, he considered Tony's words. 

Loathe to admit it, he knew the genius had a modicum of a point. Clint and Bucky were both sharp-shooters. Both ex-assassins with dubious pasts and to boot, they'd both been weaponised and used against their will. He knew the archer still felt blood on his hands from his deeds as Loki's blue eyed puppet. The Russian culture didn't hurt either, nor did the fact that Barton had the same moral grey area as him. 

So. 

Maybe it wouldn't be resolutely _awful_ if they hung out a little more, if they got to know each other a little better. They had a tendency to only hang out when it involved the rest of the team too, though it wasn't for actively avoiding each other. If he recalled, Barton now had at least two weeks of earned leave. Plenty of time to forge enough of a bond to get the two muppets off his back, then. 

Plan established, Bucky headed for dinner, and made a hasty retreat to bed when Steve got that look in his eye, like Clint's name was yet again on the tip of his tongue. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the three of them. Bruce was off in Malaysia, Thor was on Asgard prancing around in his cape, and Natasha had retreated somewhere warm and sunny to wait for her next assignment. Her absence relaxed him more than he would care to admit; their warped history unsettled him, and so did her apparent view that it lent them a bond. He didn't not like her, he just...Hated that she was a reminder of what HYDRA had made him do. 

Darkness brought with it the cold, and the night brought with it terror that climbed down his throat and blocked his air, strangled his screams into whimpers. He lurched upright, chest heaving, already opening his mouth to demand that JARVIS left Steve sleep. He could wait out the misery of his past alone, and with the help of coffee. The lingering feeling of cold drove him to his closet, and he perused his options before his gaze fall on a slip of purple, hanging behind a thick jacket. 

It was as soft as he remembered it being at the store, and Bucky pulled the sweater over his head, thankful for its loose fabric and the immediate way it seemed to lock in his body heat. The compound was silent as he roamed it, the dimmed lights above giving him enough of a view to reach the kitchen without banging into any walls or obnoxious display cases. 

He was near the common room when he noticed it, the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a breath. The lights had been turned up there just enough to assume whoever was there was doing something. Bucky hesitated, but took a few silent steps forwards, peering around the corner. He had expected Stark, squirelling away another mug of coffee while on another insomnia tirade. 

He wasn't expecting it to be Clint, stood near one of the couches with his Kevlar and outfit discarded around his heels, shirtless in the dim, golden glow of the overheads. His torso was littered with bruising and he appeared to be reaching for a gash on the back of his left hip, fumbling awkwardly because he couldn't see it to know what he was doing. 

What was this? Fuck with Bucky day? Was the universe trying to tell him that he needed to replace Steve? 

Bucky stayed quiet in his hiding spot, observing the way that Clint shifted awkwardly to dab an anti-bad wipe at his flank. The archer moved stiffly, nose scrunching in pain whenever a muscle was pulled or a wound tugged. Clint seemingly gave up on trying to reach the cut and dabbed at his shoulders instead, frowning. Bucky didn't move, and breathed quietly, but all the same the archer quite suddenly snapped his gaze up, eyes zeroing in on Bucky like a....Well. A hawk. For a beat they simply stared at each other, and then Clint went back to his cleaning. "That's kinda creepy. And its rude to stare" the man murmured, tossing aside the bloodied napkin. Bucky frowned, but gave up lurking and moved towards the center of the room. 

"They said you were coming back tomorrow" he huffed, folding his arms as he let his gaze sweep the expanse of skin. Clint was muscled, toned. Not in the carved-marble way that Steve was, but the defined shapes sloped and dipped in the right places, and he looked soft, touchable. Astoundingly human. His skin had a very slight tan, his hair messy and in a faux-hawk. Clint gave a soft hum in response, hissing as the cuts begun to sting. Bucky could sympathise. 

"Its two in the morning. Technically, they didn't lie" the archer responded mildly, attempting once more to attack the wound at his hip. It wasn't a particularly vicious thing, but it was bloody and deep enough that it obviously bit when he moved. Bucky tolerated the pathetic attempts for a few more minutes before grunting and stepping forwards, snatching the wipe from the archer's hand and sinking down to one knee, nudging and pressing at Clint's flank until he turned enough for Bucky to be able to dab gently at it. He was right; it was only a few millimetres in depth but it was a little jagged. Not a stab wound, but a drag wound. Clint was staring at him, arms slightly raised and eyes round, but Bucky ignored him. He did this for Steve plenty of times; it was no different patching up someone else. 

Clint's body was warm and firm beneath his hand, and the skin twitched at the first touch like a colt's. "What was the assignment?" Bucky asked, suddenly desperate in the face of sloping skin and a temping V-line to fill the silence. He'd never really seen Clint without a full deck of combat gear or a thick hoodie before, and the reveal was startling. This close, Bucky could see the scars that littered his body, thousands of small ones broken by the odd larger one. Not far above Clint's hip and towards the centre of his stomach was a thicker mark, a jagged half-star that when Bucky thought about it, looked like an arrowhead. When he glanced up Clint was still looking at him, expression soft but half-masked. 

At Clint's right shoulder, in the front where it was meaty and below his collarbone, was another. Clint's head turned to follow his gaze, and he gaze a rueful, grim smile. "My own arrows. Contracting stem tips. Titanium. One straight into my stomach and intestine, one through my shoulder. One into my ribs at the back, and the last right between the shoulderblades. A life-long token of brotherly love". 

And somewhere, niggling in the back of Bucky's mind, he vaguely knew something about that. HYDRA had warned him of Clint on his last, most recent missions for them. 

_The Hawk is a ruthless man. He has training not unlike yours, and a feral past. He is the attack dog of our enemies, and you will avoid him, do you understand? But if he comes for you, you will kill him. This is a man who killed his own family, Soldat. Do you understand? He follows no rules, he has no respect for order and peace as we do. You will avoid him, or you will kill him._

He remembered SHIELD, too. The passing murmur of Clint's colourful and blood-red history. The vague mention of a brother with bad blood. He realised he had stopped wiping and was now merely holding Clint's hips, staring at the pocked little scar, and he heaved a breath before he continued to dab at the crusted blood. Clint shifted under his touch just slightly, leaning into it with a light shrug. He was still wary, that much was clear, but Bucky had the inkling it was more to do with the situation than Bucky as a person. Of everyone, Clint had treated him as the least suspect upon meeting. 

"The assignment was taking out a small sub-cell of Canadian mercenaries. Teamed up somewhere around last year and have been doing some sloppy, high-profile hits since then" Clint added after a moment, to steer the topic away from the sullen reminder of whatever had happened. Bucky gave a nod. That sort of thing sounded straight up Clint's alley. Avenger or not; the man did SHIELD's dirty work first and foremost, the slightly more golden Winter Soldier of SHIELD. The thought was only mildly discomforting. He opened his mouth to reply, but a third voice beat them to it. 

"I can come back later?". 

Clint twisted around and Bucky leaned to peer past his hip, to find Stark stood in the opening area of the common room, empty coffee mug clutched to his chest. It was clearly one of those 'don't stop working for anything short of the apocalypse' nights. His hair was messy and he had motor oil streaked across his jaw, and his shirt was covered in a variety of marks Bucky found vaguely curious. The man was blinking at them owlishly, gaze sliding from Clint to Bucky, and it took a moment for Bucky to realise how it must look, from Stark's perspective, at least. 

"No need" Clint responded cheerfully, motioning Stark closer as Bucky finished cleaning the wound and stood. Clint had a small medical bag open on the couch, and he turned away to rummage through it for some gauze. If left alone and un-prodded, the wound would heal without the need for stitches. When he turned again Stark had in fact come closer, observing him with his arms folded and some sort of shark-like grin on his face. 

"I wasn't aware you were back" he noted to Clint, who gaze an easy shrug, muscles jumping under Bucky's touch as he begun to tape the gauze to his side. From what Bucky knew, it wasn't hideously uncommon for Clint to show up at unexpected intervals. Only once or twice had someone from the compound actually gone to SHIELD to collect him, and if Bucky remembered correctly, the last time was because he'd flown a quinjet home with a concussion. Bucky hadn't lingered around long when Natasha had come hauling him back, but Clint had stumbled along like a wilted flower. 

"Got the job done a little early and couldn't be bothered to fly out at the stamped time. I missed my bed. And coffee" the archer responded, looking down curiously when Bucky finished and moved away. Tony's gaze tracked him the entire time, smile growing. 

"Mm. Well, don't let me disturb you. Although next time? Maybe try going to your room. Less chance of being... _Disturbed_. More privacy. Y'know. For you two to..." Stark trailed off with a vague gesture around him and spun on his heel, humming loudly as he retreated, leaving the two ex-assassins to stare after him in mutual confusion, Clint still half-dressed with his arms out, and Bucky folding over the edge of the medical tape with a frown. Stark was an oddball on the best of days, but the Avengers doing some bodily patching wasn't exactly an uncommon or private thing anymore. Especially nto after the time Steve had came barrelling into the common room before passing out, like the drama princess he was. 

"Huh. Maybe he's still not that fond of injuries" Clint shrugged, wincing as he stooped to haul up his jacket. The rest of the armour he left there, presumably for Stark to spit and trip over before throwing in the wash in the (later) morning. "Should'a seen him after the New York battle, man. He took one look at Steve's insides on the outside and nearly threw up all that Schwarma stuff" Clint informed him happily, easing himself into the jacket with a soft sound of discomfort. Bucky had heard all about the New York invasion and Steve's reckless fighting, and had already given his best friend a mouthful over it once or twice. The news about Stark's delicate stomach did make him smile a little, though. 

Clint paused in the entry-way, seemingly mulling something over before he turned to Bucky, gaze sweeping his chest. "Oh, and. Nice sweater" the archer noted, gaze lifting to meet Bucky's before he threw him a lewd wink and disappeared around the corner. Caught off-guard and disgruntled, Bucky looked down at his outfit before scowling, spinning on his own heel to march into the kitchen and aggressively make a hot tea. He lived with a bunch of weirdos. Especially when it occurred to him that Stark hadn't even re-filled his mug.

And it got worse from there. When Bucky eventually crawled back out of bed in the early mid-day, Steve pounced on him in the kitchen, nearly knocking his newly made sandwich out of his hands. Bucky clutched it to his chest defensively, using an elbow to bully Steve into giving him some safe space for his snack. "Tony told me about last night. That's...Y'know. I'm proud of you. Being open like that. And you know none of us are judging you, right? There's no need to hide it from us. You can be tender" Steve informed him, cheeks flushed from his morning workout. Bucky eyed him warily, before pulling a face. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He muttered desperately, fleeing the kitchen and Steve's wounded puppy eyes. He was still wearing the sweater from earlier, having not bothered to change, and he shut the door to his room firmly, scowling. Steve had had that soft, loved-up look in his eyes, and Bucky liked it absolutely none. This whole 'forced friendship' thing was getting creepier and weirder by the minute. It was almost as if they were trying to set him up on a date, but Bucky refuted the idea. If they didn't trust him to go clothes shopping, they wouldn't trust him to be in a relationship. 

Although. 

_Not_ that he was considering it, but Clint wouldn't be the _worst_ choice in a partner, he supposed. For one, the man was also in his line of work; which meant not only that he wouldn't have to live a double life, but that Clint could handle himself if anything ever went sideways. It gave them a lot to talk about and the chance to spend time together. A very large common ground, now he thought about it. 

And it didn't hurt that the man was attractive. Tall and lithe, snarky, dependable. Ocean eyes and fluffy hair. 

Bucky stamped viciously on the thoughts, biting into his sandwich. That was a road he wasn't turning down. 

He lounged in his room for most of the day, refusing to leave for fear of being pounced on again. Steve and Tony seemed to have tag-teamed on whatever this was, and he was loathe to spend his day running away from them or listening to whatever weird shit they said to get him to make a friend. Netflix had some pretty interesting stuff he wanted to check out in any case, and his day was wasted lazing in bed, gaze fixed on the TV screen. It was only the slight grumble of his stomach that drew him from his den, peeking out of the door to scope the hallways before padding stealthily through the compound. 

He kept his eyes and ears open as he moved, but from what he could tell, he was alone. He relaxed a little as he walked, fingers brushing the cuffs of his sweater. Perhaps he ought to buy another. In black, maybe, to shut everyone up about their supposed issue with him wearing colour. Rounding the corner had him freezing into the kitchen entryway, because Clint was slumped at the kitchen island, curled around a steaming mug of coffee and looking largely dead to the world. He was about to retreat when the archer's head inclined ever so slightly. 

"Afternoon, Barnes" he murmured, soft in the silence around them. Buck paused a moment longer, but eventually moved into the kitchen, heading for the cupboard. Clint still looked rather sore and beaten, and in the full light of day he could see a bruise along his jaw, a slight split on his lower lip. Clint was wearing a large, soft hoodie in a faded grey and sweatpants that hung on his hips, giving way to a thick pair of sneakers. He looked soft, damaged, and Bucky briefly ached for him. This was not a life he ever would have chosen. Not for any of them. Seeing his friends crawling home battered and bloody was a part of his life he would resent forever, even if he was there right alongside them. 

"Nice sweater" Clint added after a moment, breathing deeply into the fumes of his coffee. Bucky paused briefly in where he'd been reaching for the spaghetti, before he continued to rummage. 

"You said that last night" he responded lightly, moving away to grab a jar of mayonnaise from the fridge, along with bacon and scallions. Clint gave a soft hum in reply to his remark. 

"Where'd you get it?". 

"Burberry" Bucky replied slowly, reaching for a pair of scissors to cut the bacon as he set the spaghetti to boil. He'd added enough for two, an unspoken knowledge that Clint likely wouldn't have eaten yet. He would leave Steve and Tony to hunt for themselves, as punishment for being creeps. 

"Mm. S'good. Very...Purple" Clint added, and Bucky turned to look at the man over his shoulder. Clint was blinking at him demurely, and Bucky frowned a little, before turning away. He couldn't think of anything to say to that. Yes? Congratulations, you're not colour blind? A silence fell upon them that gradually become comfortable, two friends in the calm atmosphere of home. Bucky set the bacon to fry and mixed the mayonnaise with paprika, salt and the scallions. When the bacon had fried and the spaghetti was drained he mixed it together thoroughly before portioning it out. 

Clint was apparently mostly asleep by the time Bucky slid the bowl under his nose, and blinked awake in a calm but evidently startled manner the moment the smell hit his nose. For a pause he only sat there, blinking into the depths of his food, before he looked up at Bucky with an impossibly soft smile. "Thanks" the archer near whispered, gazing into what felt like Bucky's soul before he looked down again, reaching slowly for his fork. Bucky lingered for a second, before turning away. 

"You're welcome. Feel free to rub Steve's nose in it. Bacon spaghetti is his favourite" he announced as he departed, something warm and content settling in his chest. Yeah, he thought. He could do this. He could bond with the team, outside of just that general unspoken agreement that he was liked and welcome. He could do the whole 'spending quality time together' thing, especially with Clint, whom he'd already noted was a suitable choice in friend. 

Who knows? Maybe bonding of his own accord would get Steve and Tony off his back. And in ergo, his therapist. After-all, the sooner he was as good a he could be, the sooner he supposed he would't have to go through therapy anymore. It wasn't that therapy was entirely unhelpful, because that wasn't true. Louise was a lovely, understanding woman who had dedicated her working life to understanding him and helping him. Some of her suggestions had been helpful, had improved his life. It was just...

He hated being damaged. He hated the fact he was warped and broken, splintered into pieces they'd tried to force back together. Hated that he needed it. Wanted it, even, on rare occasions. On some days he'd rather chew off his arm than go, and on others he felt likely to chew it off because he couldn't. 

Steve swung by in the later evening, and was blessedly free of any weird Clint-related remarks, bullying his way onto Bucky's side of the bed and tucking himself just behind his older friend, a demanding big spoon as they settled to watch Hells Kitchen. If asked about his favourite part of the future, Steve would wax on about the medical care and freedom and the food and the sheer things people had done, like walking on the moon. 

He was a lying little shit who lied. 

It was Gordon Ramsey, and Bucky would tell everyone that when Steve had moved on to the next journalist. Warm and comfortable found him dozing, and Steve awoke him some several hours later to retreat to his own room. Bucky was asleep again in almost an instant, warm and comforted by the lingering scent of his friend. Nights spent sharing a bed were less, but not forgotten. 

Morning brought him to therapy, but he held his tongue on the matter of Clint and the sweater. He talked about shopping, about finding it as dull as he always had. Shopping to him was another chore, another necessity. Wandering around busy streets, laden down with bags...It wasn't, at least to him, a fun day out. She seemed to understand, smiling blandly and telling him than mundane or not, the very essence of it being a typical chore was a good thing, and that he ought to do it several more times between their next visit. 

He would have. Really. If only for the sake of Steve, he intended to keep up with all her little tasks and 'beneficial experiences and behaviours'. Except two days later the Avenger's Alert System went off, and Bucky found himself whisked to the outskirts of Sri Lanka to stop a four armed (??!!) man from stealing a weapons cache with a team of doggedly determined followers. 

"Why does everyone want world domination?" Clint whined from his side, looking an arrow with intense focus. Bucky gave a grunt in response, batting aside a bullet that flew from an angered opponent. "What's so bad with just being a city crime Lord these days? Huh? Street muggings and the like. Less risk; longer lifespan". 

Bucky twisted and Clint ducked towards him as bullets rained, tucking down against his chest and stomach as Bucky used his arm to block, and then pulled the handgun from the side of Clint's thigh, taking out his opponent with precision. In all it was a rather quick affair, but that didn't stop Bucky from taking a hit to the shoulder and Clint from taking a shot to the thigh. 

"Hey. What's that?" Clint painted, tugging at his sleeve. Bucky looked down, watched nimble fingers plucking purple fabric and scowled, jostled him a way from it. He'd been wearing the sweated when the call came, and had merely thrown a few layers of Kevlar on over it. 

"Nothing. Focus on walking. You're heavy" he frowned, moving towards the rest of the Avengers who stood in a cluster near the quinjet, eyeing them but apparently deciding they were unworthy of assistance. Bucky scowled as deft, light touches undid the Kevlar at his side, revealing more purple expanse as Clint cooed delightedly. 

"I will punch you in the face and it'll be with my left arm" he vowed through gritted teeth. Clint only gave a soft hum, brow lifting even as he grimaced in pain. A crowd had begun to form on the outskirts now, phones lifted. Bucky ignored them as he walked. 

Clint had undone four more segments of his ballistics jacket by the time Bucky all but throw him at Steve, who caught the archer with the grace of a dancer. "Take him. Before I take him out" he grumbled, barging past and onto the quinjet. Stark snickered loudly at his heel. 

Bucky stared at his sweater with a frown, stripped of his Kevlar and shirtless on the jet as Steve gently dabbled at his wound. It was soiled with blood, frayed in places. Ruined. 

"We can get you another" Steve promised quietly, looking up at him with soft eyes, and Bucky shrugged, tossing it aside. It was just a sweater. He had others. 

And yet...

The morning after that, Bucky came storming into the communal kitchen like a rampage of buffalo, thunderous as he slammed the magazine down onto the counter, making Steve jump so hard the man nearly inhaled his spoon. 

"What. The fuck. Is _this_?" He demanded, jabbing a metal finger at the cover. Depicted upon it were him and Clint, mid-stride and draped over each other. Bucky's lower sleeve was purple and so was his collar and flank. The bold head line screamed ' **Bromance or Romance?** ' At him. Steve perked over at it cautiously. 

"Uh. You? And Clint". That was apparently his answer, and he stated it confidently, leaning back in his seat to look up like a kid that just did the first ten digits of Pi for the first time. Bucky wanted to throttle him, but a dead Steve couldn't answer him, so he settled for darkening his scowl, flipping the magazine open to page four. Steve tracked the movement with a wary expression, like at any moment Bucky might attempt to kill him by rolling it up and shoving it down his throat. 

"Superhero Dream Team? The Winter Soldier steps into action wearing Hawkeye's signature colours. The Avenger's latest move, or something more romantic?" He read aloud, venom laced in every word. The magazine had caught his eye when he'd been getting a coffee from his favourite bakery, the chosen image poking his curiosity enough that he'd wandered over. He'd looked so furious the cashier had given it to him for free, her hands shaking so badly she'd almost spilled the coffee. It hadn't mattered; Bucky had thrown it in the trash on his vengeful march towards the Tower. 

"Uh". 

Bucky whirled, and found Clint stood in the doorway, looking a little owlish and very startled. In his grasp he held a shape of packing tissue, folded neatly and taped over whatever lay within. Bucky's lip curled on a snarl and he pointed at the archer accusingly. "Are you responsible for this?" he demanded, and damned near launched Steve through the wall when the man put a hand on his arm placatingly, infuriatingly calm about the entire situation. 

"Hey, Buck. It's okay. If you weren't ready to announce it yet, we can -"

"Announce what?" Bucky barked, fingers flexing in the air. Because it sounded a lot like he was implying - 

"Announce what? His affinity for college schoolgirl style?" Clint parroted, advancing into the room and swiping the magazine, package abandoned on the counter. Steve blinked between them, looking arguably confused, before Clint snorted. "Well. This makes my gift a little...Awkward. Also; how dare you not tell me we were dating?" He grinned, handing the magazine back to Bucky as he hopped up onto the edge of the counter, nudging at the package. 

"What?" He and Steve replied in unison and equal confusion. It was starting to feel like a chick-flick film. Clint gave an easy shrug. 

"Your sweater is in my colours? Apparently it's a _thing_. Like a dating thing. They think you're wearing my purple to show we're together" he explained cheerfully, blissfully unresponsive to the way the two men stared at him. Bucky in dark rage and mildly disgusted confusion, and Steve in blatant, startled confusion. 

"Did you...Not? I mean, that's what we all thought" the supersoldier offered weakly, and Bucky rounded on him. 

"What do you mean, 'we all thought'?" He snapped, though even as he asked it dawned on him. The awkward talks. The influx of ClintClintClint in his direction. The sweater. Bucky scowled and withdrew, pointing accusingly at the magazine. "My sweater is _not_ his colour. And that's so...Primal". 

Maybe primal was exactly why the idea made him feel warm all over. 

Clint offered him a lopsided grin and snaked past him, darting out of reach when Bucky attempted to grab him. But the man was quick and sly, and that left him and Steve, who looked vaguely sick as they sat and stood in terse silence. It was Steve who broke it, casting Bucky a meek glance and a polite cough before he opened his mouth. "Uh...So. You and Clint _aren't_ together, then?" He asked after a pause, and Bucky turned his head slowly. If he focused hard enough, Steve might actually burst into flames. 

"You're a moron. And I hate you" Bucky announced darkly, moments before Clint came striding back in, his usual jacket clutched in his grip. 

"Okay. So. I was gonna let you open it, because. It's your gift. But look:" and the archer tore into the soft tissue paper, revealing the exact same sweater that Bucky had thrown in the trash not a day prior. Or, it was another one, obviously. Brand new, the tag still attached to the collar when Clint pulled it from the wrapping and lay it down besides his jacket. A little bit of pulling and pushing meant the purple panels amongst the black lay against the purple of the sweater, and Bucky felt his shoulders slump. 

Fuck. 

It was an exact match. Almost like it had been done deliberately. The leather was richer but no different in shade, and Bucky ground his teeth together as Steve pushed to his feet, awkward and tip-toeing around them. "Alright. Uh...I gotta go talk to Tony. And it looks like you guys gotta talk to each other, soooo...I'm gonna. Go. Now" he finished lamely, gesturing to the door before he padded past them, casting Bucky one last apologetic glance. 

They stood in silence for a beat, staring down at the two fabrics. Bucky wanted to call his therapist, shove the magazine in her face and go _See? This! This is why I hide in the Tower like Rapunzel and ignore humanity!_

"Did you know? That people would think that?" Bucky asked after a moment, and Clint cast him a soft look and a shrug. 

"I mean, I sort of knew it was a concept. The whole 'staking a claim' thing. I guess I just never put it together with you because you're... _You_. You wouldn't need something so obvious. Nor would you just do it with that meaning without us even being together" Clint pointed out after a moment of consideration. Bucky half wanted to hit him. Being Bucky Barnes didn't mean shit. There was no guide book. No instructions. He must've been silent for too long, because Clint was looking thoughtfully down at the clothing again. 

"It does look good on you, though. The purple". 

Bucky looked up slowly, carefully. Clint met his gaze evenly, shameless and supportive of his words. Clint had never been one to mince his words, to say anything he wasn't entirely certain of. The look in Clint's eye was enough to translate it to _I like the way it looks on you_. Something selfish, hopeful and hot begun to coil in his gut as he turned, faced the archer bodily. Clint met him steadily, unflinching. 

"Why did you buy another one?" His voice sounded rough to his own ears, and he cursed it. Clint only shrugged, reached out to run a hand lightly over the sweater, almost fondly. 

"You liked it. You liked the feel. The fit. The colour. And I was kind of the reason yours decided to move into the garbage. And...In all honesty? I selfishly enjoyed the way you looked in it. I mean, c'mon. Shoulders like that? And in _my_ colour?" Clint grinned at him, toothy and loose. But Bucky could see the way he stood, legs braced. Clint expected to get hit. And was Bucky really so reliant on his fists for communication? 

"Don't look so wounded. I know I'm not exactly a catch, but it's not like it actually means something. We can talk to Stark and -" That was as far as Clint got, because Bucky took a step forwards, curled metal fingers into the fabric of his jacket and hauled him closer, his other hand falling to Clint's hip to steady him as he ducked down, sought Clint's mouth for a bruising, closed kiss, anything to shut him up long enough and to fulfil the selfish need Bucky had been harbouring since it had first ignited as a possibility in his thoughts. 

Clint was a good kisser. He tasted like coffee and caramel, his breakfast as Bucky licked at his mouth and then pulled back, reached out and grasped the sweater. "I ain't being pasted as your little side-kick. We fix this bullshit," he gestured to the magazine. "And then we go on a date. I guess my colour is silver, so. Gonna have to hunt for something that'll work" he considered, gaze raking Clint's body in a less than subtle manner. The archer looked ruffled but pleased, grinning at him, hands flexing on Bucky's waist before he pulled him in, kissed Bucky just as intently as Bucky had kissed him moments ago. 

"I've got plenty of shiny things, Buckaroo. Won't be that hard". 

So maybe shopping wasn't awful, after-all. It was still a little tedious. But it was made a lot more bearable by Clint crowding him against the changing room walls, all teeth and tongue and wandering hands, the metal chain around his neck glinting as his fingers curled over the purple strip of fabric tied around Bucky's wrist. 


End file.
